


Repayment

by greymissed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:53:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greymissed/pseuds/greymissed
Summary: Irene repays Sherlock in the only way she knows how.(Not what you’re thinking, though there are hints of that as well.)





	Repayment

_Did you miss me?_ The note on the bed says, and his breath catches – not because it is Moriarty’s signature line and Moriarty is _dead_ , _must_ be dead, but because of the handwriting and the faint scent of vanilla and jasmine that accompanies it.

 

“What are you doing here?” His voice is brusque, but the crack in the last word is telling, and he knows that she, of all people, would notice it. He wishes that he didn’t feel this mix of anticipation and excitement, but what his mind wills has never been that relevant when it comes to her.

 

He turns around in time to catch The Woman stepping out of the bathroom, barefoot and perfectly poised in nothing but a bathrobe. Not his this time, but the hotel’s. It’s then that he notices the bag on the armchair, the faint indent in the carpet.

 

“Not even a hello, Mr Holmes?” she asks, mock-hurt, but her mouth is curved into a familiar smirk.

 

It is always arresting, the first time he sees her after a break, and this break has been the longest one yet – the last time they had properly met had been just before his “resurrection” in London. He tries not to be obvious about it as he takes in the changes that the past one year and three months have wrought – she’s lost some weight, gained a healthy tan, and has not been sleeping very well, but other than that seems unchanged, save for some deliberate, artificial changes to her appearance. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

 

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours. Did you miss me?”

 

“Do you even have to ask? Of course not.” Missing someone speaks of sentiment, and he does not deal in sentiment. While he can no longer deny that he and The Woman have significant sexual and intellectual compatibility, to term it sentiment would, he is certain, be stretching it. Furthermore, admitting that he sometimes wishes for her company (and even when he doesn’t, she routinely shows up in his Mind Palace, no doubt a product of his subconscious) would be ammunition he has no intention of handing over to a woman who knows all too well how to employ it.

 

“You bruise a woman’s ego, Mr Holmes,” she says, but the gleam in her eyes tells him she is nowhere near hurt. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you that that’s rude?”

 

“There was nothing they could teach us past the age of three,” he tells her derisively.

 

Her smile widens, showing a row of even, white teeth, and she slowly makes her way across the room. “But you’ve been such a good student,” she says, no doubt referencing the time they spent together in Karachi and when he was dead.

 

Yes, she’d properly schooled him in a number of activities – though he refuses to consider them in the same line of thought as what his parents may have taught him. Still, he refuses to take the bait. “I’ve answered your question; now it’s your turn – what are you doing here?”

 

She stops, a few feet away from him, and he is suddenly grateful that she is, at least, clothed. “I’m here on business.”

 

It is typical of The Woman that her statement raises more questions than it provides answers. It is also typical of The Woman that, after all this time, he still can’t read her – but he refuses to let himself be diverted. “Let me be more precise – why are you _here in my room_ , on the top floor of a luxury hotel in the 6th arrondissement in Paris? And don’t say ‘to misbehave’.”

 

“I like misbehaving,” she agrees as she pulls out a pouch from her bag and begins to apply makeup in front of the large vanity mirror. “But in this instance… I happened to be in Paris and a little bird told me you were here too, so I decided to pay you a visit. To be honest, I was expecting a warmer welcome.”

 

He brushes off her comment; she knows full well the danger of her position and how he’d take to her being in Paris. It’s not London, but close enough that she might be recognized. “I thought you knew better than to take foolish risks.”

 

If he’s hoping to wound her with his words, he’s missed his mark. “Is that sentiment I’m hearing?” she asks, indulging him with a smile.

 

He ignores her question. It is a game they play, this dangling of words like ‘sentiment’. “So you admit it’s foolish?”

 

“And you admit it's sentiment?” she parries back without once pausing in her artful application of eyeliner, but moves on before he can vehemently deny it. “Anyway, I take precautions,” she tells him. She is referring no doubt to her attempt to disguise her appearance. She is now a redhead with long, glossy curls, face bare of make up – but she is, to him, unmistakably The Woman.

 

“It’s not worth it.” He is irrationally upset at how blasé she’s being, and tells himself that it is because he doesn’t want his efforts in Karachi to go to waste.

 

However, her next words give him pause. “Consider this repayment,” she says, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

 

“Repayment?” he repeats, feeling uncharacteristically two steps behind. Repayment _how_? And repayment _for what_?

 

“ _Think_ ,” she commands, straightening up and temporarily abandoning her makeup in favour of increasing his discomfort with her proximity.

 

She can’t be referring to Karachi. As he’s made clear to her, he didn’t want or need any sort of repayment for saving her life in Karachi. In any event, any such debt would have been paid off long ago; the information from The Woman had been critical when it came to dismantling Moriarty’s web. The wheels turn in his mind…

 

_Ah._

 

“The rose tipped him off,” he deduces, and doesn’t wait for her confirmation before denouncing it. “It was foolish of you.”

 

While he’d been in hospital recovering from Mary’s gunshot, he’d woken up one morning to find Magnussen in his room. Amongst the flowers, gifts and cards that filled the room there was a new addition – a single red rose in a vase and an accompanying card in front of his bed. He’d known at once that they were from The Woman, but it was too late to get rid of them – and, unfortunately, Magnussen had noticed.

 

Her eyes – a light blue now – gleam. “Yes – foolish. Some might even say sentimental,” she adds wryly, drawing a sharp fingernail down his jaw. “I couldn’t help it.”

 

It’s all he can do to keep from swallowing, but he maintains his composure. She is close enough that he can smell Casmir on her, and the memories the scent evokes are ones he’d rather not think about right now. “I did it for John and Mary,” he tells her, though in fact, Magnussen’s discovery of The Woman as one of Sherlock’s pressure points had been the catalyst for his decision to take that last drastic step to get rid of Magnussen and his vaults once and for all.

 

“No matter.” The Women shrugs carelessly, exposing a bit of creamy décolletage that Sherlock resolutely does not let his eyes fall on. “I’m glad to see you’re looking well. Much better than when I last saw you, in any event – though that isn’t difficult. And I’m glad Charles is dead,” she says firmly, a touch of seriousness and vulnerability entering her expression for the first time since he’d opened the door.

 

He tamps down the fury that suddenly shoots through him at the thought of just how Magnussen may have threatened The Woman. He needs to remain calm and focused. He has forty minutes to put on a tux, don his disguises, and book a limo to take him down to the Ritz. “Anyhow, your repayment will have to wait. I am very busy. You need to leave now. And forget your business; you need to get out of Paris at once.”

 

He walks to the door, intending to usher her out, but The Woman remains where she is, a brow now perfectly arched. He sometimes wonders why he bothers; telling The Woman to do something is akin to issuing her a challenge _not_ to do it.

 

Slowly, she caps her lip gloss and makes her way towards him. “Just how do you think I intend to repay you, hmm?”

 

At his silence, she continues, “I’d love to know what’s going through that big, sexy brain of yours right now. I think I can guess,” she teases, taking delight in his discomfort.

 

He knows what she’s driving at, but he doesn’t have time for her games; not right now. “Irene—”

 

“But I don’t do repayment of that sort.” Her spine straightens and her expression switches from flirtatious to serious without a pause. It is the Dominatrix now speaking. “I know what you’re busy with. I know why you’re in Paris and what you’re doing tonight. I’m here to help.”

 

He frowns. “Explain.”

 

“You’re in Paris to attend a charity auction at the Ritz tonight. You’re looking for a valuable painting that’s been stolen, and you think you’ll find the perpetrator – or someone who represents him – at the auction.”

 

She’s right, of course, though God knows how she came to be aware of all of this. Always, The Woman surprises him with how much she knows and how well she can read him without revealing more than the barest hint of herself. Still, none of this has anything to do with her.

 

As if reading his mind, she continues, “I also know that you could use a date, particularly one who is familiar with breaking and entering, using a gun, and getting out of places unseen. And who knows as well what a good portion of the attendees like.”

 

“And who might that be?” he asks sarcastically.

 

She opens the wardrobe to reveal a deep green evening gown with a plunging neckline, and turns to him with a smirk. “I come prepared.”

 

He hesitates. “It’s not safe.”

 

At this, her eyes seem to soften slightly (though he can never be sure with The Woman). “You look at me and see Irene Adler but, I promise you, no one else does.”

 

It’s not hard to believe. People, as ever, see but do not observe. But The Woman is often more trouble than she is worth; letting her in could disrupt his carefully laid plans and ruin the entire game. On the other hand, he knows as well as she does that her idea has much to recommend it. His plan isn’t perfect, but it’s the best he can do on such short notice. Having someone who thinks on the same level as him, and is also skilled at charming her way through a crowd, would be an immense help.

 

Annoyingly, she senses his capitulation almost before he is aware of it himself. “Wonderful,” she says, and without warning drops the robe she is wearing.

 

It is all he can do to stop his blood from rushing southwards. He tears his eyes away from the sight of The Woman standing stark naked before him – in the flesh, and not just in his Mind Palace, for the first time in four hundred and ninety-three days (not that he’s counted). Turning abruptly away to grab his tux and head to the bathroom, he wills his mind to erase the sight – or at least temporarily lock it up somewhere hidden and secure. _Right. Quick shower, suit up, disguise._

 

It is only in the shower that he realizes his mistake – The Woman knew just what she was doing. Even though this should be familiar ground by now, each time they meet it is as if they begin again – there is the push and the pull, always the resistance before the caving in. Sometimes The Woman manages to wear him down; sometimes it is he who initiates contact, drawn to her almost irresistibly. She would have been looking for a sign of weakness, an _in_ , and in being so obviously affected he’d played right into her hands. His body may just be transport, but aspects of such transport can be awfully traitorous and inconvenient.

 

He manages to get his blood pressure somewhat under control by the time he emerges from the bathroom, but seeing The Woman standing by the window in the evening gown – the deep green striking against her red hair and pale skin, the pale light of dusk casting a glow over her features – threatens to send it spiking again.

 

Unconsciously he makes his way across the room to her, realizing it only when he sees them both reflected in the vanity mirror. They look quite the pair. She looks up at the same time and, from the way her breath hitches and her eyes darken, it seems she thinks so as well.

 

“Be a dear,” she says, and he acquiesces to her unspoken request, moving to help her with the row of tiny buttons that runs from the place her back curves into her derriere, up to where her red curls graze the milky skin of her back. He resists the temptation to let his hand linger.

 

“Thank you.”

 

For a minute they simply pause where they are, their breaths measured and even.

 

He’s not going to take her pulse, but as his eyes meet hers in the mirror, he notes that her pupils are dark and dilated. _(So are his.)_ There are tiny goose pimples on her neck where his breath ghosts over her skin.

 

“If you’re very, very good,” she says finally, her voice a low contralto shattering the silence, “I may even let you undo them later.”

 

Her words remain at the back of his mind throughout the evening.

 

They taunt him as he and The Woman step out of the limo and make their grand entrance into the Ritz, a striking pair despite the fact that neither of them looks as they really do – she a redhead with pale, glossy lips and smoky eyes, and he dapper and hipster-ish, with an uncomfortable goatee and his hair slicked back.

 

They cycle through his mind like a mantra as he feels his gaze being helplessly drawn to the graceful arch of her neck; the glossy pout of her lips; the feline curve of her back; the long, elegant line of her leg that tantalizes through the high slit in her dress; the way the material drapes and dips just so… and of course those dratted buttons.

 

They hover at the edges of his consciousness as he and The Woman smile and charm – or he smiles and she charms – their way through the guests. If his hand lingers a touch too long on her waist, he tells himself that they are simply keeping up appearances; it has nothing to do with the dozen pairs of male eyes following her around nor the fact that the gesture somehow feels right. In fact the gesture is, at the same time, oddly familiar and utterly foreign – familiar enough in itself, but then they’ve never acted like this in public. Even in private, their interactions usually run more to words cloaked with hidden meanings than to ordinary gestures of affection.

 

He has to push the words out of his mind as they run barefoot – she draped in his tuxedo jacket, with her stilettos in hand ( _cannot sacrifice these Louboutins, they cost a bomb_ ) – through the streets of Paris, laughing like children.

 

It is exhilarating. _She_ is exhilarating.

 

When at last they stumble back to his hotel room, it is with adrenaline surging through their veins at their sheer luck and the narrowness of their escape. The plan has worked; the perpetrators have been caught and left for the police to find.

 

The door closes behind them and they turn to each other, their laughter dying on their lips as their eyes meet.

 

“Thank you for your help,” he tells her stiffly, trying to bring them back to safe, neutral ground.

 

“As I said, it’s repayment.”

 

Despite the fact that they've just escaped the winter chill and he is not wearing his jacket, suddenly the room feels far too warm. He resists the temptation to remove his bowtie – that would hint too much at undressing – but apparently she has no such qualms, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and handing it back to him. It will return to his closet amongst other items of his that The Woman Has Worn and Returned.

 

“I need to get out of this dress,” she says, the opening gambit.

 

Now it is up to him to determine the direction the rest of their night will take. He knows exactly how he wants the rest of the night to go, but he’s not going to give in just yet. This is what they are, and this is what he enjoys. The allure is in the mystery, the endless tug of war.

 

“I’ve just disrupted a charity auction costing half a million to host, maimed three men, and damaged a fair bit of public property. Tell me, Ms Adler – do you consider that having been very, very good, or very, very bad?” Despite volleying the decision back to her, his voice is a low baritone, his desire unmistakable.

 

She takes one step closer. “Considering I helped engineer it, I would say you were very, very good. But then I love to misbehave, so it could be just the opposite. What do _you_ think?”

 

They are standing so close – she is nearly pressed up against him – that he can barely think. “I _think_ , Ms Adler, that we ought to stop thinking for awhile.”

 

He circles his arm around her waist once more, pulling her against him, and dips his head.

 

The buttons come off a few minutes later.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading this! Honestly this one has been so fun to write – there are so many ways the interactions could have gone. I realized that although I’d published a few Adlock fics here, none of them have contained much interaction between Sherlock and Irene. Hopefully this fic remedies that. 
> 
> If you’re interested in the mention of Charles Augustus Magnussen discovering Irene as one of Sherlock’s pressure points from the rose in his hospital room, you can check out my fic “The Single Rose”. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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